Black hat 8 gray seas, p.15
Black Hat 8 - Gray Seas, page 15
“They offered to stay.” I enjoyed the lash of the words as I whipped her with them. “To help.”
“Stay and help doesn’t mean sit by and watch their daughter self-destruct.”
The warmth at my side, the gentleness in Asa’s touch, promised he would do whatever I asked of him.
We had only just saved his mother, and it must be circling at the forefront of his mind.
How much he risked to get her back. To make her safe. To spare her from his father.
In his touch, his quiet, I read he wouldn’t judge me for wanting the same for Aedan. For doing the same. He understood the bitter taste of guilt rising up your throat, how you never swallowed it all the way down. The aftertaste remained. Always. A reminder of your failure.
But I remembered too, what Clay said about why Aedan made the sacrifice.
“He didn’t want you stuck choosing between him and Ace.”
I thought then that I would rather stare into the sun until my eyes burned out than look within myself to determine if he was right. I no longer had to wonder. The truth was as simple as knowing I would get Asa killed if I tore off after Calixta when I had no clue where in the great wide ocean she was hidden, no way to reach her, and no aquatic allies to help me get her topside if I did find her.
“I’ll give Calixta twenty-four hours.” I smelled blood dripping from my palms. “Then her bill comes due.”
One day to finish tasting the immediate revenge she would be forced to savor as she upheld her end of our bargain.
“Good girl.” Meg slumped in her chair. “That’s all I ask.”
“I should go.” I pinned a smile on my lips. “We have to drive over to Beverly to interview the Cales.”
“All right.” Her smile was as brittle and false as mine. “Take care of her, Asa.”
“I will.” His stare, locked with mine, held the weight of a caress. “I vow it.”
While I went through the routine of severing the connection with Meg, Asa watched me in silence.
“Did Blay have a good time?” I discovered I couldn’t let that quiet linger. “I heard screams for hours.”
“The visitors quit coming around midnight.” He kept his eyes on me. “He played Mystic Seas with Colby after that, and the Mayhews shifted and went to explore Essex Street to see if they’d have better luck picking up a scent trail for the king killer or the courier.”
“Look, what you walked into was…tense.” I couldn’t face him. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“This situation is tearing you apart.” His voice didn’t move closer. “I understand that helplessness.”
“Yeah.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I know you do.”
“We’re going to get him back,” he promised in a tone that dared me not to believe him.
“I know that too.” I finally worked up the nerve to turn. “But will he still be our Aedan when we do?”
Beverly was a short drive from Salem with zero traffic, and the small town had a vintage aesthetic that welcomed visitors back in time. The abundance of flowers, in pots, hanging from posts, and landscaped, was a nice touch. So were the clean streets, the fresh paint, and the abundance of cute stores.
Our target was Tattoo Shops Near Me, the primary business of the Lyonne coven.
Not many black witches held jobs requiring customer service and frequent human interaction, but three generations of Lyonnes had been uniquely talented artists and decided to support their coven with ink. The pieces on their website were extraordinary, but I wasn’t big on body art.
Body piercings? I slid my gaze toward Asa. Now that I appreciated.
“Quit looking at him like that.” Clay slapped a hand over my eyes. “There are children present.”
“Colby’s in your pocket,” I reminded him. “You’re just a killjoy.”
“I am the only thing standing between you and Ace busting out Austen-level romance on the street.”
“Good thing I wore socks.” I stuck out my leg and tugged up my jeans. “He might see…my ankle.”
“You do have lovely ankles.” Asa crouched and dipped his finger into the top of my sock. “Do you mind if I…?
A loud retching noise exploded from Clay as he bent double over the sidewalk.
“I thought that would be weird,” Marita whispered to Derry, “but it’s kind of hot, right?”
“I agree.” A wicked glint sparkled in his eyes. “Want me to stick my finger in—?”
“No.” Clay jerked upright and smacked a hand over Derry’s mouth. “Do not encourage them.”
“How do you want to play this?” I yanked my hem back in place. “Send in Derry or Marita?”
“They’re too recognizable.” Asa rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip. “What about Isiforos?”
“Not a bad idea.” I located a coffee shop with the tattoo sign in sight and aimed toward it to get us off the street. “I’ll tell him to dress casual.” I shot him a text and snorted at his instant reply. “He’s in Salem.”
“He’s a fast learner.” Derry winked at me. “Where Rue goes, trouble follows.”
The reminder dug a hollow behind my ribs, but he wasn’t wrong.
“That’s rude.” Marita elbowed him on her way to me. “Ignore him.” She cut him a murderous glare. “He hung his sheet over a chair in our room last night, got up to pee, thought he was seeing a real ghost, and screamed until I punched him in the stomach.”
“It bruised.” Hand over his navel, he grimaced. “Thanks for that.”
“Hey,” she reasoned, “it shut you up.”
“Because I had no oxygen.”
“What can I say?” She wrapped her arm around me and led me inside. “I’m a problem solver.”
While we placed our orders, the guys stood clustered around the bakery case, making eyes at pastries.
“Mmm.” Our barista ogled them from behind the register. “What do I have to do to make a man look at me like that?” She wet her lips when Derry glanced over. “I’d take a bite out of that one in a heartbeat.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Marita paid our bill. “Muscle is chewier than you might expect.”
The woman fumbled the credit card when the comment registered, but she managed to scoop it off the counter on the third try, run it, and pass it back to Marita before rushing to fill our order.
A smile tugged at my lips, and I took the initiative for once to drape my arm across her shoulders.
Wargs, and shifters in general, were very tactile and used touch to reinforce their bonds with others. This nightmare of a trip had given me a fresh perspective on our friendship, and I wanted to reciprocate.
“Hello to you too, hot stuff.” She cozied up to me. “What did I do to put that grin on your face?”
There was no one thing I could settle on, so I went with, “I’m just glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” She laced her fingers with the ones I dangled off her shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.” I strangled the thought of Aedan before it formed. “Still having fun?”
“With you?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Always.”
“Because I attract trouble and cause mayhem in general?”
“Well, that, and you’re awesome. I like you. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re badass. I could sit on your couch, watch infomercials, and eat store-bought cupcakes with you and still enjoy myself.” She elbowed me in the ribs, and I bit back a groan from the strength behind it. “Couples need couple friends. You and Asa are our soul mates.” Her lips tipped to one side. “And Clay is a pretty cool third wheel.”
“Maybe don’t call him that to his face.” I sneaked a peek that confirmed he was too busy cutting up with the guys to pay attention to us. “He’s a sensitive soul.”
“I can tell.” She indicated him with her chin. “Very sensitive.”
While the poor barista was occupied, Clay breathed on the glass and drew inappropriate pictures that involved the donut selection and his finger. Derry was in stitches, but Asa wore a fonder smile, one that told me he got his pleasure from being included. Not from the anatomically dubious donut humor.
“Two mocha mint frappes,” the barista called, topping our drinks off with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. “Four ube donuts, four cheesecake donuts, four black sesame donuts, and four matcha donuts.”
“That’s us.” Marita forked over a healthy tip in cash. “Thanks.”
We chose a high top table in front of the glass to people watch while we waited on the guys to join us.
Too bad people weren’t more interesting when stakeouts involved so much time watching them.
“I hope you don’t mind I ordered for you.” She stacked up my share. “I love pon-de-ring donuts.”
The shape reminded me of those water-filled teething rings for babies you popped in the freezer. Or like gluing a ring of donut holes together with icing before glazing it.
“As much as we eat out these days, you did me a favor choosing for me.”
“Most people hate cooking, but you’re anti-takeout.”
“Not anti.” I sipped my chilled drink. “Just tired of it.”
Weird how I used to cook in hotel rooms or rentals with Clay and thought nothing of it, a stove was a stove, but the experience was different now that I’d had a home. A kitchen with a place for everything and everything in its place.
(Except for the scissors Colby kept stealing for crafts. And the chip clips I kept finding in Clay’s room even when there were no bagged snacks in the house, leading me to believe I never wanted to find out what he was doing with them. And sometimes Asa wandered off with my bamboo skewers, and I’d find him knitting with twine at the table.)
But now I had trouble working up the energy to use the teeny cooktop in the tiny house. The oven was a laughable 2.3 cubic feet box too small for most of my baking sheets. I didn’t even have the counter space for the KitchenAid stand mixer Clay bought me.
The worst part was knowing how lucky I was to have a roof over my head and a brand-new stove, along with everything else, but still being unable to shake my ungratefulness.
I was homesick. Plain and simple. But not so much for a place as a time when things were simpler.
“I can respect that.” She chomped through her portion. “I can’t cook enough to feed Derry and me every single morning, noon, and night for the rest of my life. I’m a big fan of placing catering orders and doing meal prep while living my best life away from the kitchen.”
Warm lips grazed my nape as I was about to laugh and nearly launched me into a coughing fit.
“Hey.” I pounded my chest with my fist. “Hi.”
“That’s not suspicious at all,” Clay drawled from beside Asa. “What were you two talking about?”
“How poi mochi donuts are the best.” Marita bit one in half. “Deep-fried balls of sweet rice flour and mashed taro with the perfect glaze.” She hummed to herself. “Life doesn’t get better than this.”
“Ahem.”
We swiveled our heads toward Clay, and the white moth whose head was peering out of her pocket in his jacket.
“The cleaners finished their analysis.” She kept her voice low. “The king killer sample from Salem is identical to what was used to kill the black witches.” She disappeared then reappeared. “There were also enough soil particles to verify the plants were grown in Faerie.”
“Or in Faerie dirt?” I checked with Asa. “Could they be grown in transplanted materials?”
“Their growing conditions are a closely guarded secret, but their rarity makes me think they couldn’t survive outside Faerie. Most native flora requires the ambient magic in the air as much as sun or rain.”
“For now, let’s assume that means Luca’s got a supplier in Faerie. Okay. Fine. Why send Nan, or her send a courier, to drop off lunch bags full of the stuff to other covens? Black witches might accept king killer as a partial payment, but I doubt she would sway them to insurrection unless the pot was sweetened.”
Poison wasn’t a big thing among covens for an obvious reason.
What was the point of killing, if not to eat the heart and grow in power? Tainted meat was inedible.
Either they were getting paid in cash, artifacts, or favors for their role.
“Do we know where it’s grown?” Derry rolled his hand. “Obviously in Faerie, but a general area?”
“In Spring.” Asa gazed out the window. “That’s all I know for certain.”
“Faerie is divided into seasons.” I remembered him telling me that much. “Simultaneous seasons, right?”
“Faerie is a world with sharp edges you can fall off if you’re not careful.” His focus returned to me. “Each corner represents a different perpetual season, and each has its own loyalties. They might all bow to the same crown, but there’s ceaseless conflict between the Seelie and Unseelie Houses.”
“Which are you?” Marita noticed her pile was empty and stole one of my donuts. “I’m betting Seelie.”
“Grandmother is a high priestess and answers only to her goddess.” He sank into a seat beside me. “Mother followed in her footsteps. I claim no allegiance to either House.”
“You’re not beholden to the Faerie throne,” Derry said as he leaned against Marita’s knee.
“Thank the goddess for it too.” I broke an ube donut in half and fed Asa a bite, flushing when he licked icing off my thumb. “Daemon politics are bad enough without adding another crown into the mix.”
“Hey, fella,” the barista called rather than recite Clay’s order. “Need any help?”
Dialing up the charm, Clay set himself on a collision course with the poor woman.
“I meant to ask earlier.” He rested an elbow on the counter. “Did you get that tattoo locally?”
“This old thing?” She twisted her wrist to give him a better view of the black and gray roses. “Nah.”
“I noticed the shop down the street, so I thought I would ask.”
“They have fantastic artists, but they keep weird hours.”
“Have you tried booking online or calling?”
“For a couple of years now.” She laughed at herself. “The sign says no walk-ins, so I’ve been trying to go about it the right way. Or I was. Last week, they dragged a customer out of the shop by his ear and threw him into the street. It was wild. The shop owner never comes outside, but he was yelling at the guy and looked ready to stomp him.”
“Maybe he was a walk-in,” Clay joked, and the woman broke into laughter.
“Maybe so.” She leaned across the divide on her elbows. “Between you and me, I overheard their fight.” She drew her fingertip down Clay’s lapel. “They were talking about black hats and covens. Crazy stuff.”
“The customer was probably a tourist who spent too much time in Salem, got drunk, and started seeing witches on broomsticks riding across the moon.” Clay snorted. “Alcohol thins your blood. Any artist worth his salt won’t tattoo you if you’ve been drinking. Maybe it’s like you said—the shop is so exclusive the owner got pissed when the guy wasted his time.”
“Could be,” she allowed, willing to be swayed. “I just hope it doesn’t happen again anytime soon.”
“That was the first time?”
“Since I’ve been working here,” she confirmed. “Though I’m not usually here that late.”
“Need help?” Derry left us to rescue Clay from his own charisma. “Let me get those.”
“I better go.” Clay winked at her and handed over a wad of bills. “Thanks for the conversation.”
“No problem.” She passed him back a card, the kind you punch visits on. “I get off at six.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tapped it against his temple then slid it in his pocket. “Have a good rest of your shift.”
“Smooth.” Marita golf clapped for him. “Eight out of ten points for style.”
“It’s hard being this handsome.” He pulled up a chair. “Some might call it a curse.”
“Others might call it the effect of centuries of practice,” I drawled as I inspected Asa’s cut of the goods.
Other than the donut I split with Asa, which Clay helped himself to, only one donut actually made it into my mouth ahead of Marita’s grabby hands. Asa had a selection of mochi donuts and a tall black coffee.
“Okay, Shorty.” Clay parted his jacket, tugged open her pocket, and briefed her on the incident up the street. “Do your thing.”
“Give me the Wi-Fi password.” She rubbed her hands together. “This should be fun.”
Once he tucked her back in, he sat and sipped from a jar of coffee the warm shade of café au lait.
“Cute little town like this,” he confided, “will be crawling with security cameras.”
And Colby had the virtual keys to the kingdom.
Soon, we would see for ourselves what happened between the owner and his supposed client.
While she got to work, we enjoyed our coffee break as the calm before the storm.
Not long after, a familiar daemon strode past us, pausing to toss us a wave before pushing into the store.
“Isiforos.” I stood and stuck out my arm. “Thanks for coming.”
“It’s my job.” He shook my hand. “And my honor.”
The last time I saw him, I decided to buy him ice cream, but a donut would have to do.
“She already agreed to the merchandising deal.” Clay snickered. “You don’t have to butter her up.”
“No one in the history of butter,” he returned, “has ever said that’s too much butter.”
Mouth falling open to argue with him, Clay shut it and turned thoughtful.
“Huh.” His gaze went distant as he accessed the vault of his memory. “You might be right.”
“Of course I am.” Isiforos borrowed a chair from another table and pulled it next to me. “So, what’s up?”
After I bought him a couple of donuts and a coffee, we gave him a quick rundown of the tattoo shop, its owners, and their ties to the king killer handoff we witnessed in Salem while he ate.
“Give me a second.” He brought out his phone and Googled the shop. “There’s a contact form, but we’ll skip that.” His lips pulled to one side. “Artists tend to be slow returning emails. Unless the shop can afford a receptionist, they don’t answer the phones much either. Even then, most receptionists don’t have the power to book for artists. Artists tend to have their own preferred method of contact outside the shop. Usually their personal email or via social media DM.”
